


Phew

by yeaka



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28990245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: A quick moment to celebrate.
Relationships: Ishmael/Queequeg (Moby Dick)
Kudos: 17





	Phew

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set at the end of Ch49, after being stranded in the water.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Moby Dick or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

No sooner do the soles of his sodden shoes hit the deck than the rope is gone, tossed overboard to check for any others, and Ishmael is left to stand on his own two feet. For a moment, it’s difficult—he’s just been tossed about by vicious waves and boiled in the steam of passing leviathans, and the little boat he squat down in before that crushed his bones into the wrong shape entirely. It feels like his flesh is soaked right through, soggy and heavy, unstable—he totters amongst the other sailors scurrying to check for mortal wounds. The wind is still whistling through the sails, carrying off the men’s frantic cries and relieved cheers, whipping his slick hair about his forehead, over his eyes and ears. The ship pitches starboard, and Ishmael totters, all his nautical experience right out the proverbial window.

He stumbles into a sturdy plank behind him, turns, and finds himself swept up in strong arms twice the size of his own. They crush him against a barrel chest and broad shoulders, his face pressing into the crook of an equally sodden neck. He recognizes the purple-yellow, ink-ridden skin and the rich scent of his partner, still thick enough to envelop him over all the salt in the air and his own fearful sweat. He breathes that in more gratefully than he ever has. One of the arms rubs a soothing circle around his back like he’s a quivering infant, and the other lifts to pet through his ragged hair—a familiar motion they’ve both grown fond of. Often times, in the middle of the night when all others are asleep, Queequeg will pet Ishmael’s soft locks and hum at the difference to his own shaved skull. But this isn’t affectionate exploration so much as raw comfort—something Ishmael didn’t even know he needed.

Queequeg doesn’t have to breathe a word for him to understand. They’ve grown more than close enough for that. Queequeg’s glad to see him still alive, when it seemed so clear they’d both perish in the water, pitched overboard by a monster they sought out themselves. Ishmael had been prepared to die with all his other shipmates, Queequeg included, and he’s equally glad he was wrong. 

He gives Queequeg a tight squeeze back, conveying his own pleasure. That quick touch is enough to warm him to the core, enough to survive the rest, the cold air and the limp fabric glued to his clammy skin. Something brushes past him—another sailor in a hurry to get below. Ishmael knows they should both follow. Everyone is back that can be, and the peril isn’t over. 

He steps away, feeling the begrudgingly resistance when Queequeg lets him go. A quick nod, as much to reassure himself as the man before him, and it’s back to work—the harsh cruelty of the sea and the exciting adventure they’ve as much committed to as each other. The drowned men shuffle off, and Ishmael goes likewise.


End file.
